Nightlock, Nightlock, Nightlock
by heartbrokenhappiness
Summary: Eleven years after the rebellion fails is the first year Katniss and Peeta Mellark's daughter is eligible for the reaping. Katniss knows she must protect her family, but how?


I run my hands along the mantelpiece, just barely touching the edges of each picture frame. They tally up to dozens now.

_Haymitch. _Killed in the Quell, of course. Along with the other former victors, of course. I somehow won again. I don't remember a day of the 75th Hunger Games, only seeing Cinna beaten to a pulp and then, next thing I knew, I was lying in a state-of-the-art Capitol hospital. Plutarch Heavensbee visited me there, staying just long enough to make it seem as if here were congratulating me on my "victory" while not appearing suspicious, yet quickly informing me, in a very far from threatening and very confusing manner, that the rebellion - how was he aware of it, and why did he care? - had failed and Peeta and I were to do everything we were told if we wanted our families to remain safe. It was no surprise when they didn't.

_Prim. Gale. _Upon the rebellion's - it had turned out it was much bigger than Peeta and I had initially thought - failure, Snow announced that the age range for the Hunger Games had moved from 12-18 to 10-20. Prim was reaped. Gale was reaped. A 19-year-old from District 2 won that year. It was blatantly obvious to Panem that this was punishment inflicted upon me. Peeta and I, newlyweds by the order of Snow, mentored them. Their faces on the mentors' observation room screen as they both were ripped apart and devoured by crocodiles and lions - what kind of an arena was that? I don't remember - haunt me more than any others' in my nightmares.

_My mother._ Shortly after the 76th Games, I saw flames rise from my mother's house here in 12. She and Buttercup perished in the fire. It was ruled an accident - too much fuel in the stove, or something - but Peeta and I knew better. The one thing we can't figure out, though, after ten years, is if it was suicide or homicide.

_The Mellarks._ Another fire ravaged the town's bakery a few months after I had buried my mother. There was no question of its origin - it certainly wasn't from a few burnt loaves of bread.

_The Undersees._ Snow "visited" District 12 for Peeta and my daughter's first birthday "celebration." He stayed and dined with the mayor and his family, after giving me another little drop-in to make sure we were "all on the same page." It didn't matter what Peeta and I did or didn't do, though - Snow would kill those I loved, and kill them as often as he pleased. The day Snow left, Mayor Undersee, Mrs. Undersee, and Madge were found dead in their dining rooms, poisoned. Their cook was found guilty and executed.

_Rory. Vick. Posy._ Their first day in the mines, each and every one of them, there was an explosion that rivaled the one that killed theirs and my father. A faulty stick of dynamite certainly wasn't the case.

_Hazelle._ She was found dead in her kitchen the day after Posy's death, a knife through her heart. Like my mother, Peeta and I never figured out if she was murdered or if she simply wanted out.

I don't blame her if that was the case. Peeta and I would have gotten "out" the moment the last person Snow could use against us died if it weren't for Primrose and Haymitch, whose time wasn't up yet. Not my sister and mentor. My daughter and son. Snow had Panem follow both of my pregnancies glued to their television sets, and of course, vote on their names. Coriolanus was the runner-up for a boy.

And if we died, our children would surely face a gruesome death themselves - or perhaps become Avoxes - at the hands of Capitol agents, hurting us even if we were gone. So we remain alive. It's as if our whole life has become a farce, though - a play for Snow to follow, act by act. The house - the entire town, for that matter-is bugged, picking up every word we say. Peeta, the children, and I have formed our own, unspoken language. We rarely mean what we physically say.

I turn away from the mantelpiece, the rest of the house swimming in my tears. Peeta and I are at a loss. We have hit a dead end. Today is Primrose's tenth birthday. Tomorrow is Reaping Day. There is no doubt she will be sent off to the Capitol, only to return in a cold wooden box, just as her "namesake" was.

Rumors of another rebellion, in its early planning stages have been passed around town. Rumors also followed that the Capitol found out quickly. Tomorrow, I am expecting poor Effie Trinket to announce that the Hunger Games eligibility age has been lowered to eight, the age of Haymitch. No, they haven't killed her. I think they keep her alive and working to haunt me. It's working.

Peeta enters the room, looking as hopeless as I do. "What do we do?" he asks.

But he says it in an upbeat tone, as if he were asking me what I want to do for Primrose tonight. In this house, happy has become sad and sad has become happy. Nothing makes sense anymore.

And now I'm going to find a way to suggest it. What I've been thinking, _wanting_ all along, ever since Primrose was born. I don't know how Peeta will take it. But parents need to do what's best for their children, and letting Primrose and possibly Haymitch get reaped tomorrow is not what's best for them.

So I say, "Does she want another cake? We had one last week to test your new recipe."

"She liked it," Peeta responds, looking at me quizzically, "Do you think she wants it again?"

"We could make another dessert. I could, I suppose. My mother used to make it way back when. A berry cobbler - blackberries are in season now, aren't they? I think they're growing just inside of the forest, on the far left end."

Peeta blinks at me. His skin literally turns a shade of green, as if he wants to throw up. And I know why. Because blackberries grow just on the _outside_ of the forest, on the far _right_ end. Something else grows where I said they do. But the Capitol is too dumb to realize what I suggested.

"No," Peeta says, keeping cool and managing to keep his breakfast down. "I think she'd really like a cake."

I walk over to him, and we sit on the couch together. Can you imagine what the Capitol spies are thinking now? A couple sitting on the couch, having a serious discussion over their daughter's birthday meal. They're probably laughing and grateful that they can doze off for a couple of minutes when the higher-ups aren't looking.

"We can have a cake tomorrow, for Reaping Day. It's more appropriate then, after all."

"I don't like blackberries, Katniss."

I make eye contact with Peeta and he holds it. "But Primrose does," I say, and then I whisper, "_It's better for her_." I don't know if those words scream "rebellion" to the Capitol, as it could be construed as a mother making a case for fruit against sugar for her daughter. But still.

Peeta looks as if he's trying to swallow a lump of coal.

"_For all of us_," I whisper again.

* * *

><p>I'm out in the woods again. I haven't been in years, since I received a letter from Snow telling me it wasn't "prudent" for me, as a mother to two young children, to be out in the "dangerous caverns of darkness," where I might get eaten by a bear.<p>

I don't care now, though, because in less than an hour none of this will matter. Because _nightlock_ is what grows just inside the forest, on the far left end.

A nightlock cobbler for Primrose's birthday. Neither she nor Haymitch will feel a thing. They'll taste the sickly-sweetness of the berries and will float away to dreamland, away from this cruel, cruel world. And Peeta and I will join them, content and away from Snow at last. It's been in the back of my mind since I heard of the rebellion failing yet again.

Because it will keep going like this, again and again, in circles and circles. Tried and failed rebellions after rebellions. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change now.

So I make the best decision I can for my children, and Peeta, after only a few moments thinking, has come around and agreed. He's upstairs playing with the children now.

The melody of a song my father once told me dash through my head. I don't remember much now, as my mother banned it, but upon further humming I recall that it was about a dead man calling for his lover to join him at "the hanging tree." Oh, how it fits, and more.

I gather a basket of berries, enough to ensure that when the authorities find us, they will realize what has happened. I hope it isn't before Snow posts images of us, dead at our dining room table, for all of Panem to see. Because Panem is smart. They will see the dish, realize what it is.

And Katniss and Peeta Mellark, accidentally feed their family nightlock? Never in a million years. They will know what happened and they will know why we did it.

It's as much of a legacy as we can hope to leave.

I run home as fast as possible, make the dish as meticulously as I can, wearing gloves throughout. I don't want to die before my time.

I find Peeta and the kids and joing in as they finish the game of gin rummy they've been playing.

The timer on the oven dings.

"Is it my cake, Daddy?" Primrose asks delightedly.

"No." I smile. "It's another surprise."

Haymitch and Primrose tag at our feet as we go downstairs to set the table for lunch and dessert. We stuff ourselves until we're absolutely full. I don't worry, because we can all spare a bite for dessert. And a bite is all we need.

Peeta brings the dish out in its shining glory, golden and crusted on the outside, and what the children don't know - black through and through on the inside.

"Cobbler!" Primrose screeches happily.

"Blackberry." I smile again, cutting sqares for us all. "Happy birthday, Primrose."

"Wait!" Peeta stops the kids before they dig in. "Let's all count to three and try it together." He's nearly crying right now, but the kids don't notice. I place a hand to my eye and pull it back, wet. "It's your mother's first time baking for us, remember," he jokes.

I lodge a chunk of hot, mashed berries in my spoon and hold it to my mouth as, in a far, distant world, I hear Peeta say, "One...Two...Three."

I swallow it quickly, hearing Haymitch squeal in delight as he devours it.

_Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock._

* * *

><p><strong>The "Nothing has changed. Nothing has ever changed now" lines are from Mockingjay, where Katniss is in the briefing room with Coin and the other victors, voting on the 76th Games. <strong>

**So, this is just what I think might have happened had Peeta's name been reaped for the Quell, and had Haymitch volunteered. Peeta would have been clueless in the control room with no one wanting to fill him in. Hence, the rescue would have failed.**

**Let me know what you think!**


End file.
